It Should've been Me
by Melidell
Summary: Alistair the King of Fereldan, is dead. Killed by the final blow of the Archdemon. His fellow Warden and lover is torn by guilt and anger, knowing with all of her heart that it should've been her lying on the stone bed occupied by a man in golden armor.


**AUTHORS NOTE**

**From the Fem!Tabris Warden when Alistair chose to take the final blow against your will. I may add more, perhaps her companions searching for her after many years, wondering what had become of the woman that had led them through the blight. What they will find, depends entirely on my mood.**

**Thank you to Auranara for the fave!**

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**It Should've been Me**

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Sunlight broke through the clouds, shining its glory onto the crowd below, catching on the golden armor that adorned their king. He lay still, arms clasped together on his chest. People were crying, small tears of grief trickling down their cheeks, but how could they mourn someone that had been king to them for less than a month? Most were silent, shocked at the sudden and drastic change that had rocked Fereldan, leaving a Queen derelict from her second husband in just over a year. Both lost to the Blight, a plague bringing Darkspawn from the Deep Roads up to the surface, led by an Archdemon. And to kill an Archdemon, a Grey Warden would have to die.

In the crowd, only eight had the pleasure of knowing the king from before the crown had been placed. But then, he had been Alistair, the Grey Warden. Alistair, who had, more than once, saved them from death with his shield. Alistair, who had expressed his love of cheeses while making silly jokes and burning supper. Alistair, who had given his life to save those he loved. Alistair, who now lay silent, mourned as something he had promised to never become. A king.

"It should've been me."

Seven pairs of eyes darted towards the speaker, surprise and relief in their eyes. Except for Shale and Sten, they simply regarded her with annoyance, wondering why she had fallen apart when she should have been strong. Sire gazed up at her, his doggy eyes filled with hope and joy that his master had said something at last. Sire knew that wet patches should be on her cheeks, because he knew his master was sad, but they remained dry, and this wasn't normal.

"My dear," Wynne spoke evenly, her voice calm, "it was his choice."

But the second Warden simply shook her head. She wanted to feel something, to scream and scream until the pain would fade. She wanted to cry and let big tears splash onto the ground. She wanted to blame and point her finger at anyone, anyone but herself. But she was the reason that Alistair was dead, she was the reason he was wearing that wretched golden armor and married to the evil and manipulative queen. All because she had been so selfish, so angry and filled with hatred of what she was, of what ran through her bood. So stupid that she had turned down the offer that could have saved Alistair's life. She had taken what was to be his choice, and stomped on it with fury before handing it back to the witch that had offered it with a curt 'no'. She had been jealous; certainly, the thought of the wild and exotic Morrigan bedding with her beloved was too much. Perhaps if she had been given time to think about the consequences if she refused, her choices would have been the right ones. She knew that she was the one who had to take the blow, her life had no meaning without Alistair and after a particularly nasty separation in front of their entire merry group of misfits, she had wanted to die, wanted the world to swallow her whole.

Anora had come and ruined everything. Arl Eamon had convinced her that Alistair needed to take the throne, and the Warden knew that he wouldn't be able to do it alone. Arl Eamon wasn't young and Alistair would need help for many years. He just wasn't made to be a king. Anora was capable, she was certain; Anora would run Fereldan and teach Alistair her ways, teach him to take care of himself and her. Perhaps have a family together. Anora was also beautiful, golden, just like Alistair, they would be a royal couple that would wow their people. Alistair with his silly jokes and Anora with her sensible attitude, even if she was a bitch. And so she had agreed to their coupling, even though it ripped her heart and tore it to shreds. Because elves couldn't become queens. Especially elves that had grown up in a childhood of poverty in an alienage.

But, she should have known that Alistair still loved her, that Alistair would rush to save her life in an instant. She had fought, nails and teeth and swords flying, fought right until Alistair had sunk his blade deep into the Archdemons skull. Then she had gone limp, and once again begged for death to take her, to release her from the whirlwind of misery and regret. But Sten had hoisted her over his one shoulder, Alistair's limp body over the other. Wynne had cast spell after spell of healing and rejuvenation until she knew that there was nothing else wrong with the Warden, only a broken heart. And not even magic could fix that. But her other companions didn't know what she had seen, only the great flash of blinding light blasting across the sky. They had not seen Alistair strike the last blow; they did not have to endure the journey back to the gates, Alistair's dead eyes staring at her accusingly the whole way. So when they had come into view, Sten and Wynne and Alistair and her draped awkwardly over large qunari shoulders, they had thought them to be both dead. But of course she would be the one to survive; the Maker had enjoyed spending a lifetime of taunting her. First with her wedding and Nelaros, who she had pictured an entire future with, happy and filled with laughing bundles of joy, and then Alistair, torn from her arms even before his death.

The Warden braced herself before striding up to the man she had fallen in love with, his coppery-blonde spiky hair still managed to fill her with the urge to bury her fingers deep into it. Kneeling down next to him, she produced a rose. It had been enchanted by Wynne to last forever, frozen in its perfection. Then face blank, she tucked it between his fingers before lowering her head over his and placing a soft kiss on his unresponsive lips.

"What are you doing?" an angry voice snapped at her, soft enough not to be heard by others, "That's my king!"

"That he may be, Anora, but he was my Warden first."

And with those last words, face still emotionless, the last Fereldan Warden rised and walked through the crowds as they parted, wondering looks on their faces. She didn't stop when she had reached the end, only carried on walking, blades attached to her thighs and a long sword sheathed along her back. Her leather armor was battle worn and still stank of Darkspawn blood, no matter how many times she had scrubbed it mercilessly. And then, as the clouds once again moved to cover the sun, she had disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind the life she had led and the friendships she had nurtured, leaving behind her name and her title, leaving behind her duty to the land she had called home and saved. Leaving behind the love she had once held for a man that had been her hero.

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**Dragon Age and all of its characters belongs to Bioware.**


End file.
